Free Hightower Affairs 2: Bedding the Secret Heiress by Emilie Rose Page A

aircraft can go the distance without stopping to refuel, and it can land at the smaller airfield we’re targeting.”
    “Yes, but—”
    “Lauren, I don’t have time for this.” He caught her elbow and turned her toward the jet. The heat of his touch penetrated her suit jacket and kicked up a crosswind of sensation, but his high-handedness made her dig in her heels.
    “Gage, I’d rather have a fully functional plane. We’re early, and we’ll make good ti—”
    “If this one isn’t unsafe—and I can’t believe it is since it’s your brother’s personal aircraft—then let’s go.” He urged her toward the jet.
    She planted her feet. “Gage—”
    “Call it in, Lauren. Get it fixed on the other end.” He pivoted and strode toward the jet without her.
    She wanted to argue, to insist, to bash her head against the fuselage. But she couldn’t. Her time was his time. HAMC wasn’t paying her to do schoolwork. Theywere paying her to be a pilot at the client’s disposal. They didn’t care if she didn’t get her degree and couldn’t get another job.
    The customer is always right unless safety is an issue.
    Her father’s words echoed in her head once again, reminding her why she was here. She sucked up her irritation and followed Gage to the aircraft, determined to get through the next three days without jeopardizing her job or her education.
     
    Finding a hotel without Internet access in a metropolitan area like San Francisco had been a challenge, but Gage had succeeded—just as he’d succeeded in getting Trent to disable the Internet connection on the plane to keep Lauren from contacting her mother.
    Encore, Please, the small bed-and-breakfast hotel in The Haight district of San Francisco had come highly recommended by a former client. It had no pool, no gym, no business center and no Internet—nothing like Gage’s usual choice of accommodation. But he had to admit, despite the lack of amenities, the place had a certain charm.
    If the property had belonged to him he would have toned down the girlie paint job in shades of lavender, purple and raspberry and eliminated some of the elaborate gingerbread trim and busy spindled railings. Otherwise the Victorian row house appeared to be a valuable, attractive and well-maintained piece of property in keeping with the surrounding homes and businesses.
    A guest interested in relaxing would enjoy the postcard-worthy views from each window. But Gage didn’t have time to unwind when he was doing the work of three consultants.
    “Refill your glass, hon?” Esmé, the proprietress asked. “Another shrimp? Another stuffed mushroom?”
    “No, thank you. It’s all very good. But if you want me to have room for the delicious-smelling dinner you have prepared, I need to stop.” There had been a time when he never refused food because he never knew when his next meal might be. But those days had passed.
    When he’d returned from the job site he hadn’t been interested in chatting with Esmé, a retired soap opera star with a dramatic flair, or Leon, her sixtysomething-year-old boyfriend, but the couple had somehow managed to bulldoze him onto the front porch and into a white wooden rocking chair and ply him with appetizers and Leon’s homemade wine. They’d also put him through a thirty-minute inquisition worthy of the FBI with such subtlety that anyone who didn’t dig for details for a living would never have recognized the interrogation. If his evasiveness frustrated them, they never let on. And they never let up.
    He couldn’t imagine Esmé making a profit running the B and B with the superior quality and high-end food she prepared for her few guests. But then Esmé probably didn’t need money. She wore enough expensive jewelry to pay off a substantial mortgage and then some. For her sake, he hoped the gems were heavily insured.
    But her finances were not his problem. He had papers to review and accounts to study for the company that had paid for his services,